


(Come Back And Tell Me Why I'm Feeling Like) I Missed You All This Time

by Fake_Brit



Category: Scandal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Gen, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 21:02:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15782052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fake_Brit/pseuds/Fake_Brit
Summary: "It’s been less than three months since she found out. Three mere months and—and she feels bone-tired, already. Kicking’s gonna be a cakewalk; swollen body parts will be a no brainer. All she has to grit her teeth against is lack of warm, energizing coffee. "Also known as, snapshots of Olake in the was accidentally inseminated with your sperm au





	(Come Back And Tell Me Why I'm Feeling Like) I Missed You All This Time

**Author's Note:**

> Ladies and gentlemen, I present you the Jane the Virgin sort of au that I couldn't help but write. This sort of meshes canon info and my spin on some things. All symptoms are depicted with no knoweldge besides tons of fic, TV and movies. As for the smut, it's one tiny scene I thought of trying my hand at. Obviously, the charcters aren't mine and neither is the title: that's from Everything Has Changed by Taylor Swift. Hope you enjoy.

**_ I _ **

She wakes up alone on her couch. And that, as much as it irritates her to even begin considering it as _not that unusual_ , is not what shakes her—startles her, even—fully out of her nap. No; the thing that chases away the warmth she had been nestled in so comfortably until now is one tiny crumble of knowledge that goes off in her foggy brain like the birthing spark of a firework and then freezes and starts over, again and again and again; on and on, until she fears her brain might burn away with it.

The crumble is this: when she had dozed off, she had not been by herself. The crumble is also a certainty, a feeling that seems to be brewing within her, never mind the flimsy evidence she can barely recall. The person that had been with her—the person who had also likely fallen asleep _and_ woken before she did—was Jake.

_ Shit. _

She’s still groggy, trying to hold onto how this happened—the why is easy: she had had an appointment earlier and of course he had remembered and shown up; _it is my child, you know_ , he would remark, his words halfway between cross and stone-cold fact, if this were a conversation and not a jumble of her personal ramblings. _The fact that this was a random thing doesn’t change that—and I want to be here for this. ****_

She huffs at the replica of his voice that is now echoing through her head; and then—her stomach growls.

There are a million details that are mounting up and up and up, the picture of what she had left behind clearer and clearer—his tricky situation with Vanessa; the flutter low in her belly when he made her laugh who knows how long ago; how easy it had been to just... let go and fall asleep, knowing he would be here, how homey it had felt; Fitz and the maze of fighting and shouting this unexpected change would lead into—because, and she can hear him, already, _this is not you—not us. You can’t seriously be thinking of doing this_ ; when it all actually boils down to another crumble of memory, one that still almost causes her to flinch. One he had basically spit out: _you want to experience this for someone else’s child_ , he’d seethed; his jaw clenched and eyes burning. It all becomes sharper and sharper as the minutes pass and the song of her hunger thunders through her ears.

She shakes her head, getting up almost fast enough to feel dizzy. She’s learned; pacing and prioritising.

She pads—gloriously barefoot, almost moaning because of the coolness of the floor against her skin in this wretched heat; she would move into an igloo tomorrow, if possible—to the kitchen, and surprise, surprise; Jake has not only stayed, (he wouldn’t leave you alone and asleep, Olivia; you know he wouldn’t) he’s also made himself at home with her stove, apparently.

She watches him hum a tune she can’t quite put a finger on as he moves—reaching for utensils and ingredients; moving them; mixing them with precise, fluid, honed movements; some part of her wonders how he learned, where and when and why—and the flutter returns, thick and warm, unfurling like a wing in her belly and then flexing up, up, up; the dizziness and current inescapable.

She marvels at the fact that he hasn’t noticed her presence just yet and almost smiles. Almost, because her stomach demands tending again, loud and grumbling and cranky—thus, the half drawn curve flattens—tightens into a line—and clamps shut.

He doesn’t turn or drop the silverware—looks like a spoon—he’s holding. “So, you’re awake at last,” he says. “And hungry, I see.”

If she were looking at him, she would say—insist—that his mouth has lifted into a lopsided grin, but she isn’t looking at him; so, she can only be sure of the smile growing on the tail of her own words as she counters with, “famished, actually.”

“Well, then,” he proceeds to wipe his hands on a nearby washcloth and then make his way away from the stove as he holds the pot tightly. “Let’s get you fed, shall we?”

_ Yes, please _ , her stomach seems to mutter in agreement.

**_ II _ **

She ends up gobbling down the pasta he had made. Simple tomato sauce with bits of mozzarella thrown in given the heat, but still, “this is delicious,” she says around one of the last mouthfuls.

Seated as he is, he attempts a half bow. “My job is well done, then,” he smirks. “You’re going to think about hiring me as a personal chef?”

_ Not the worst idea, now that you mention it _ . “I was actually thinking about consults,” she tells him instead, “on cases. But I wouldn’t be opposed to more surprise lunches.”

“Work goes on the yes column; home-cooked lunches fall under maybe,” he pretends to scribble it away by tapping on the table; something tells her, though, that pretending won’t lead to him automatically coming up blank on either matter, should she ask in the future. “Duly noted,” he says, serious through the last bit of hurried tapping, “on both accounts.”

There’s something in his eyes she can’t really name, but it makes her throat tighten. “I’m sorry—about Vanessa. And about Emily, I was really harsh to her.”

Jake shakes his head. “You couldn’t have done anything about Vanessa, anyway, Liv,” the nickname comes out suddenly and the wing flaps again, higher and higher. “This just... sped up what was lurking on the horizon, I think,” his voice is dripping with something—something that sounds like regret? Her stomach churns, despite the food; she knows next to nothing about this, but she wishes she could do something, say something.

“As for Em, you were in a tough spot—you still are—and you lashed out, that’s understandable—”

“She could’ve lost her job because,” is she sobbing? Damn it, this is an apology; this has to sound sincere. “Because I got pissed at something she had no way of interfering with. It was a mistake that could’ve very well not stuck and I just... I went for the jugular straight away.”

“If it had been her,” he says, and he almost sounds tired—as though this very subject had drained before she or his sister had said a word—as he almost reaches a hand out to the one she’s pressing on to the tablecloth; in reality, his is only hovering, close to curling, an impulse he’s reigned in too late. “I can assure you, she would've fought just as fiercely as you,” on that last bit, his voice gets clouded again, like the reason for which he’s spoken with such force had hit him straight out of memories. And maybe, she muses, it has—but she has no way of being sure of her hunch; it doesn’t feel like the kind of memory you would drag up to impress a girl you met after a deployment; especially when she asks you, her throat still burning with any alcohol but beer, _make me forget—_ help _me forget. Even for just a blink._

She remembers that kiss well. It had been new and different and open and not-with-Fitz. His stubble had sort of itched; it had started gently and then grown restless, the trail of his raspy, “close your eyes,” shivery on her neck, each word followed by the feeling of a finger curving just as carefully around her cheek.

She’s about to tell him she’s sorry—is the third time just today; this is Olivia to future child and their friends the hormones, give it a rest, people—again, but the moment splinters the minute Fitz walks in. Which she couldn’t have predicted because he has a key; otherwise known as the circumstance that gives no notice unless you’re sitting on your ass and waiting for a click. And she most definitely had not been waiting—for a click or anything at all.

Instead of greeting her, he grumbles, “Why’s he here?”

“Hello to you, too,” she mumbles, without turning to him. “I had an ultrasound today, and Jake noticed I was basically sleeping on my feet; he offered to drop me off here.” _And it just so happens that I did fall asleep;_ on him, most likely. “And he also ended up staying, because I woke up starving.”

“Speaking of,” the moment—the tense, thick one—snaps away as Jake clears his throat and relief almost has her buckling off the chair. He gets up as he speaks; the traces of what he’d been so focused on keeping away vanished as though they had never actually been tangible. “You’re up and you’ve eaten, so I’d better get going.”He drops a kiss to the curve of her cheek as he goes, light and possibly loaded—for Fitz. “I’ll see you tomorrow at work, though.”

She gives a sort of an eye-roll. _Are you kidding me, Ballard?_

_ C’mon, _ the twitch in his cheek as he throws her one last mischievous grin seems to be saying, _he deserves to squirm a little after the thing he just did._

“I’ll see you,” she says quietly—the sort of quiet that somehow hides the barest hint of trepidation she’ll only concede to in the wee hours of the night, because getting comfortable is already one hell of a challenge, apparently.

She whirls on Fitz the minute he’s disappeared beyond the door. “I hired him to consult because he’s good, despite whichever twisted reasoning you might be debating,” she’s already tired, angry as her words may be. “And he’s _my friend_ , as crazy as that might sound.”

Fitz blanches. “You’re carrying his child,” he hisses.

“I am, but last time I checked that has no impact on his brain,” her words hang for a second, heavy and sharp. She adds, “ _Or mine._ ” 

“You kissed him,” he reminds her.

She is tired, but this—this is like throwing fuel on a flame; and she hopes that the burn stings as much as his voice just did. “Yes,” she admits. “I kissed him. Once, four years ago—after who knows how much alcohol.” She remembers telling Quinn and Abby, later. She remembers feeling hopeful for the first time in a rather long while; but she also remembers deciding to stop after two dates—and his understanding. “But you know what? After two dates, it stopped— _I stopped_ it because I couldn’t get you out of my head. And you know who didn’t throw a fit about it? I’ll give you a hint: he was in the navy.”

She’s been keeping all of this locked up for months now. When she told him about the pregnancy—weird how and kind of awkward who included; on the spot, it had been a relief—she hadn’t expect it to get so... competitive in the long run. Sure; she hadn’t expected them to be pals or anything but the animosity—it’s driving her batshit crazy.

“Besides,” she adds, holding up a hand. She and Jake haven’t exactly set plans yet. And she had sort of settled on telling Fitz once things had shaped into something calm, something reliable. Alas, the grimace he throws her way whenever she mentions Jake and-slash-or the baby seems to have seared its way into her brain, lately (or now, to be specific) and seems to have driven that train far away from the wait station. “Hate to burst your jam-flavoured bubble, but plans can change. They _have_ changed, actually.”

His lashes sweep up and down—blink, blink, blink. “What do you mean,” he demands, “ _plans have changed_?”

“I mean that it’s the twenty-first century,” she tells him pointedly. “Co-parenting is something that people do—and it’s re-entered the cards.”

“Re-entered the cards,” he squeaks. “I thought you guys had a legally binding contract drawn up,” he frowns, but something tells her law-abiding has little to do with why.

She sighs. The farther she ventures in this conversation, the murkier it gets. He deserves to know that these nine months won’t be a parenthesis anymore; as breaths and minutes tick by, however—she is not so sure she is up for this particular fight right now. “We had,” she confirms. “But—one of the conditions fell through; Jake’s,” her breath quickens, beating as though it were spelling the truth in some kind of code. _Divorcing,_ it taps and taps and taps in her chest. _He’s divorcing._ “He’s getting a divorce.” She says it fast, staring at him as though she's hammering a nail into place.

She walks back to her room without even giving him the chance to glare at her. If he wants to complain—despite the fact that he’s not technically involved—he’ll have to wait for tomorrow.

**_ III _ **

She didn’t sleep a wink last night. She supposes it’s a preview of some sort; one that she would’ve gladly passed on because, as used as she is to sleeping less than other people, she can usually kill the yawning monster by large way of gigantic cups of coffee—or, she guesses she used to be able to.

It’s been less than three months since she found out. Three mere months and—and she feels bone-tired, already. Kicking’s gonna be a cakewalk; swollen body parts will be a no brainer. All she has to grit her teeth against is lack of warm, energizing coffee. _Mandatory_ lack; she huffs at her paperwork-filled desk and some of it blows back at her face.

She barely notices someone else is inside—Quinn’s chasing a lead; Abby’s going over evidence—until, “I’ve got something for you,” Jake says, over her shoulder. He’s not hovering and he wasn’t being loud, but—

She turns to him—bless this chair and its wheels, honestly; springing to her feet in heels would’ve been a pain in the ass—and glares. “Seriously,” she crosses her arms. “Have you been de-aged to ten overnight? You scared me to death.”

He waves a hand. “What if I told you,” he says, and there’s a gleam in his eyes, “that I brought breakfast?”

“Does that include coffee?”

He grins as he extends a paper bag. “Okay, you do have a cute puppy voice and the doe eyes to match, but, nope; you wish, Liv,” he’s still smiling as he rummages through it.

“You’re heartless,” she pouts.

“You’ll thank me in six months or so,” he teases and presents her with... is that a toast? “This was supposed to be an omelette, but I’m not sure how much of a nuisance your nausea is, so—I went on the safe side. Hold on,” he says as he fishes—can that be a thing? That bag isn’t even that wide—for something else. He offers, “Jam or butter?”

Her stomach lurches. “Nope; simple toast will do,” she is probably wincing as she says it. “Are you absolutely sure I can’t bribe you for one tiny sip of coffee?”

His lips twitch up, but, “Positive, Miss Pope. However,” he must’ve noticed her wincing because he’s frowning a little, as though he were assessing the why and filling it away—for later. “I think I can whip up some tea, before we crack this case. How’s that sound?”

Better than the prospect of barfing all over the desk at any moment’s notice, for sure. “Good. It sounds good.”

He leaves her to perusing documents and munching carefully on toast with no further comment. As she scans pages—hoping for a thread to appear so that she could follow it, even before Quinn returns—she feels at ease like she hasn’t in weeks; not at home, at least.

-:-

The tea helps settle her stomach. It doesn’t do much for the case, though. If anything, staring at her paperwork is only making her feel as though she were willingly banging her head against a concrete wall.

Quinn had waltzed in about half an hour ago, her lead as cryptic as the look she’d shot Jake. “What’s Unexpected Baby Daddy doing here?”

Olivia had barely kept a groan to herself. “Woah, Perkins; stunning secret code, you’ve come up with there,” had been Jake’s retort. He hadn’t sounded—well; he hadn’t sounded offended. 

“Trust me, this is definitely more endearing than,” she had feigned pondering, as though it had been difficult to remember, and then she’d leaned towards him and lowered her voice into a whisper—one of those for people that share important things. Or embarrassing ones, depending on who is doing the telling. Right now, because it’s Quinn, her brain has started flaring. _Blushing incoming in—three, two, one._ “Beer Captain.”

He had arched a brow at her. _That’s the best you can do?_

She’d ducked her head. Quinn had opened that door; she would not add fuel to that fire just yet. Or ever, actually.

She’d cleared her throat. “He’s consulting. Since he’s a P.I. and all; quit snooping.” She hadn’t meant to snap at her, but she is still not in the mood and it’s been five hours of thinking and thinking and thinking. She needs a clue, something that is far, far away from her and her twisted love-life.

Her head has started throbbing from staring so hard; the paperwork in front of her has not, however, stopped withholding whatever clue might lie hidden on the inside of it. “Damn it.”

“That’s it,” Jake declares, looking up from his stack; out of which, no clue came either—so far. “We’re taking a break.”

She’s about to flex her finger at him. Maybe throw a glare, too; _we’ve discussed this, Ballard. No kid-gloved handling._

And then, Quinn says, “I concur.” 

She blinks, and if an ear-equivalent of that action existed, she’d do that as well.Did Quinn—agree? Her inner voice pauses; then, at a higher note, it squeaks, _with Jake?What even—am I making this up?_

When she had found out she was expecting—both the finding and the expecting a complete accident she wouldn’t have chipped in on while drunk _or_ stone-cold sober—Quinn had been with her; literally locked into nervous stillness by her ER bed. And then, she had stirred up so much chaos that Olivia _would’ve_ chipped in on walking out of there with a lawsuit in the making, scrapped knuckles—or both. “You heard her; she said she isn’t pregnant,” she’d scowled at the doctor. “Run the test again.”

She had been with her when she was told whose baby it was she was carrying; had watched her face drop at the name—had grimaced herself. “It’s not that I have something against Captain Ballard per se,” she had muttered, staring at the office wall—the same one she’s frowning up at right now—and then she had pulled another face. “It’s more of a stability concern. You’ve chosen Fitz; you’ve fought for Fitz. You—you planned a life, Liv.”

She had. Chosen and fought and planned. Once upon a time, that is. “True,” she remembers saying, her face pressing against her hands. “But I wouldn’t be doing this for me. This pregnancy,” she’d halted and her throat had tightened on the word; a concept she had always—correction; read that as, _until that day_ —shoved away. Not now not now not now. “This is for them. This is probably one of their last chances. I can’t just back out.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jake’s protesting now and the memories around her melt away at the words, as though he’d driven them out himself; it sounds like he’s seconds away from bursting out laughing, despite the somewhat serious tone. “Perkins, did you happen to hear me say, _the pregnant woman has fulfilled and exceeded her work quota and must thus stop_ , by any chance? Cause that’s what Liv here seems to have heard, judging by that glare.”

The nickname pops out again; the wing goes back to its flapping—swift, strong, treacherous. _Get a grip, Olivia._

“Nay, sir, I did not,” Quinn says, hand held up high as though she were swearing. “In fact, I think we all should take a break.” And she taps her pen as though it were a judge’s hammer.

-:-

They are alone when she finally decides she’ll come clean about yesterday. Even though everything almost happened, so there’s nothing to actually come clean about, except—her thoughts. “Fitz and I almost fought yesterday,” she says, not knowing where to look. “About the baby, I mean.”

Quinn tilts her head toward her. “Oh?” Then nods—go on, get it out.

“I told him that we’re thinking about co-parenting, because things between Jake and Vanessa aren’t—they aren’t good.” She holds up a hand; Quinn’s objections and questions don’t even need to be voiced, by now. “And I know people have been doing it by themselves for a long time; I know that it can be done—I’m sure Jake would be great at it. The thing is, I’ve had a single father and I just—can’t do that to my kid, because I care too much. I care about this child, whether I started out like this or woke up yesterday and felt that.”

“And you fought because,” she prods.

“ _Because,_ ” she grits. Great: even saying it again pisses her off. “Every single time I approach the baby discussion, he drags the kissing back up. Four years old kissing, might I add.” Her hand clenches into a fist and her voice rises. “All because this kid has someone else’s sperm and that someone is, pardon the tongue-twister, someone I care about and dated for two seconds.”

“He’s also a co-worker as of today,” Quinn reminds.

“Because he’s good at what he does,” she reminds back, a tad bit piqued. “What do I look like, a dad-only kind of employer? Besides, working together doesn’t imply that we’ll end up,” she gulps down on the idea. _Nope. Not a chance in hell._ “Being together, eventually. That’s just—that’s insulting. And I should slap you for going there.”

Quinn smirks. “I’m just saying that’s where Fitz’s head went. I’m not saying I think you’d do that.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah; trying to salvage your own skin aren’t you?”

“Possibly,” she admits, now showing an actual smile. “But you’re veering way off course, miss. You said you want this baby?”

It’s the first time she actually tells someone, and she kind of feels that by doing so some piece of the natural order of things will crumble and speed up an iteration of doom, but Olivia nods and tells her, “I do—I want this baby.”

“Well, then,” Quinn’s tone has descended into rock territory. “It’s settled; if he’s not okay with it, he’s gonna have to deal anyway.” And then, she adds, “If he wants to throw a tantrum, instead—too bad for him: I can punch pretty well.”

“O-kay,” Olivia croaks. “I think you’re running a little; but still—punching ability noted.”

_ IV _

“I want to do this, but I need to know, Fitz: are you in or are you out?” At his frown, she clarifies, “With the baby—are you in or out? Because,” damn it; this is not the time for shaky voices, hormones dearest; this is the time for a case voice—unwavering, steely, firm. “I am in. With Jake involved—he’s in, too.”

“Liv, I,” he gulps down. On what, she doesn’t want to know. “I can’t do it, I’m sorry.”

_ He had the guts to say it, at least. _

She nods. “I’m sorry, too.” _That we both hoped for something different than what we ended up getting_ ; _that we put so much energy and time and effort in it._

Acknowledging, however, does not erase the pang that follows the sound of that door sliding closed.Parting ways may be for the best for them both—the three of them—still; it’s a jarring new route, this one.

-:-

“Don’t say you’re sorry about this,” she warns Jake a couple of weeks later, as she lies on his couch one afternoon. Not that she’s using him as a stand-in therapist or anything, he’s just—her unexpected baby daddy. And a person she trusts. “It was my decision—both times; keeping someone who couldn’t accept either of those around would’ve backfired, eventually.”

“Agreed,” he gives her a thumbs up, and then sobers up. “It’s still a shitty thing—that you have to deal with a break up on the top of a—”

She pushes up from his couch, away from the back of it. “Don’t say _unwanted pregnancy_ ,” she grumbles, tightening her grip on a cushion. “Because that box has been unchecked—and I’ll hit you with a cushion.” She cocks her arm back just a bit, “I’m not kidding; I _will_ hit you.”

He chuckles. “I was simply gonna say pregnancy, but sure; suit yourself and hit me with your best shot.”

_ Cocky bastard; he’s not even trying to act scared. _ “Sure you were,” she mumbles.

“You looking for a target?” he asks. It’s still light, but his tone has lowered; seriousness sharpening all the angles of his face into doubt—into wondering; perhaps assuming. “Because now that I think about it, it all kind of does circle back to me, you know?”

She leaps up and glares. It may be on the way to settling in as most recurring thought, but— _no way in any circle of hell._ “This wasn’t about you per se, Jake,” she hasn’t shouted; she is just politely reminding him. By using her Fixer-At-Work tone. “This was about me making a decision Fitz kept objecting to because he couldn’t pull his head out of his ass about you _and me_.”

“Hear, hear,” he cheers.

“I mean—I told him we’d kissed, but I _also_ told him I’d broken up with you pretty damn fast because of him—and that you, at least, had had the decency not to lose your wits at that or,” she’s smirking now—because the rest of this requires smirking and possibly snorting, since alcohol isn’t a viable option. “The time I showed up, after four years of not even seeing you pregnant with your kid,” she’s trying not to fold onto herself and laugh her mouth off—and failing spectacularly.

“To be honest,” he admits, and for a second there, he sounds—rattled. “The second time did throw my wits off for a second—until Em explained, that is.”

“Details,” she waves a hand. “Point is, you won’t end up making out with me just because I’m giving birth to a tiny human that is half you half me and there’s no other man preventing you from doing so, correct?”

Jake’s staring at her nose. Weird spot, if you ask her. “Not unless you ask me to, no,” he tells her, and he’s so serious she almost feels the hair on the back of her neck stand up. There’s something about the lowness of his voice—something she can’t quite grasp as of now—that has her stomach tighten into tiny knots.

“Good,” she says. “Now, can you please, please— _pretty please,_ start rubbing?”

He frowns. “You’re not even showing yet,” he points out.

“You think my heels give any damn about how much this kid weights?” This may be classified as gripping by some people, but A) she doesn’t care and B) anybody with flaming feet would agree—and possibly act worse, so; there’s that tiny thing. “Spoiler alert, Ballard: none. They give absolutely no damns, so please, save me. I’m begging you, here.”

He chuckles. “Yes, ma’am,” he teases, “at your service, ma’am.”

She growls. “Don’t call me that—it feels impersonal. And you and I,” she notes in a voice that’s husky and soft; both and neither, “are anything but, Captain—making out or not. You hear me?”

“Aye, aye,” he confirms—and, finally, finally, begins rubbing the inside of his fingers against the calloused skin of her feet. Has she mentioned _finally_? Because—holy shit, he’s good at this, too. Her feet feel like they have never even come in contact with heels after a good ten minutes.

“How do you even hide so many tricks?”

“Now, now, Liv,” he’s enjoying himself. Obviously—and it would bother her, but—his hands better keep moving; for an indefinite amount of time because there are years of tension to untwist there, if that’s even a word at all. “Where would the fun be if I told you straight off the bat?”

“As long as you keep massaging,” fuck—is she—is that a moan coming out of her mouth? Great, she tells herself. She’ll never hear the end of this now; high five, Olivia. “You can hide the moon; I don’t really care.”

“Roger that,” he murmurs as he drives his thumbs harder into the bumps of her calluses. “More massaging’s on its way.”

“Thank you,” she tells him, “for listening. I know this must be awkward.”

“Don’t even go there; it’s the least I can do right now, you know.”

“Alright,” she concedes. “You’ll remember this moment when we argue about midnight feedings—and you’ll want to smack yourself. I’m telling you, just for the record.”

“Thanks for the heads up, anyway.”

“You’re very welcome,” she sighs. 

For the first time since she discovered she was pregnant, this doesn’t feel like a mountain she’s set to climb.And—she can finally breathe a little.

**_ V _ **

“Hi, Liv,” Emily chirps at her on her next hospital check-up. As far as she knows, she was reprimanded; no words about restrictions reached her ears, but Jake—he’s worried. “This job,” he’d sighed, “Sometimes, I feel like it’s all she has, after—Sandra.”

“I can do a little digging, if she wants,” she’d offered.

“Nah—she’d never go for it,” he’d said, resigned. “But thank you.”

“Hey, Emily,” it’s impossible not to smile back. The woman is like sunshine modelled in a human body. Which is why, she supposes, a tiny-teeny bit of her would gladly find this Sandra and—have a chat with her; a completely threat-free chat.

“If you’re here, why is my darling brother nowhere in sight?”

She knows that tone. It’s what she refers to as _the prying Ballard._ “We didn’t leave together, and traffic is getting intense,” she ventures. “Unless you can see through cars and spot him, I’ll have to hazard a guess and put my money on that as to the reason you haven’t seen him yet.”

“Very funny,” Emily snickers. “Want some company?”

She will never admit this, but these visits are not something she likes going through alone. It’s just—she’s used to dealing with hard truths and tons of facts and some of those make her head spin with, _what would I do if that happened to my baby_ because her brain is wired to glue itself to the worst scenarios and dissect them until they stick around, even in fragments.

“I wouldn’t mind,” she finds herself saying. Then her gaze flickers to the nurse, whose eyes had narrowed at the request. “It’s okay—she’s the baby’s aunt.” 

-:-

“You know, sometimes I wonder who’s more excited,” she confesses to Jake as he sets a chicken salad in front of her chicken salad, “you or Emily.”

“That’s easy,” he answers, stabbing a piece of potato on his own plate. “Em; she can’t wait until she gets to do some spoiling. Me, I’m terrified.”

She arches a brow.

“What?” he shrugs one shoulder, “the fact that I’m calmer than you doesn’t mean I’m not scared, you know.”

“Point taken; it’s just weird for me to picture you scared at all, to be honest.”

“You’re in for a surprise, then. Especially if we’re having a girl,” he sighs. “It’s not how I planned on telling you this, but my father,” she’s never seen him angry, but she can’t deny that there is a storm building up in his eyes at the mere mention of the man. Her hand tightens around her fork, clammy. “He was abusive to us—me, my mom and Em.” He sighs again. “I mean, he hit me and my mom—but Em,” his head moves. Shaking; it’s shaking. She can’t see his hands, but they’re most likely clenching. His voice had been flat up until now; and then, it grows darker. “He got,” a sob tears its way out. “Handsy, when she was a teenager and—it just escalated from there, until cirrhosis got the best of the bastard.”

Her fork drops. “Too bad,” she whispers, surprisingly clear. “Because I would have enjoyed burying him in court—and then watching him rot away.”

He shoots her a small smile.

“You’re wrong, by the way,” she rebuts, softer but still firm. “You wouldn’t be like him— _you won’t be._ And I know you’re thinking that I can’t say something like that yet, but,” her heart is doing its best to break her chest cavity. _Thump, thump, thump_ , it roars. “I’ve seen you stepping up for us, I’ve watched you at ultrasounds, you were every bit as taken as I was; you’d drop anything if I told you it was for the baby. So—stop right there, Captain, because all you’d come up with would be nothing but excuses.”

Jake shuts up about it, but he stares at her, small smile fixed in place and widening.

A thought is circling in her brain like an ouroboros: he’s smiling—at her—and it’s something so small, but it’s making her feel like a lit up Christmas tree—in the middle of summer.

_ She’s so screwed. _

**_ VI _ **

The first time she feels movement, she’s at work. The case has moved forward, but there’s something—someone—she’s still not entirely sold on. Her gut is hissing that something, some bit of the final picture, doesn’t quite add up. And then—a pang echoes low in her belly. “Quinn,” she doesn’t yell; it’s more like a panicky hiss. “Quinn, something is wrong.”

“What? What do you mean something’s wrong?”

“Here,” she grabs the hand that’s closer to her and places it on the spot, low on her now noticeable bump. “Feel that?”

Quinn nods, but smiles. “Olivia,” she says gently, and wait—this is weird. Quinn hasn’t called her Olivia in—her nose scrunches. Since before Harrison left, probably. “What you just felt isn’t a red alert. That’s your baby,” a pause and then, “moving. Your baby is moving.”

Wow, is her first thought. _Wow._

Her second: the minute I tell Jake he’s missed it, he’s gonna lose those wits of his. What if I call Emily and we bet on how fast this goes down?

-:-

“A kick?” it’s a question and a breath—almost like a child with a puppy, and her heart squeezes. Guess she owes Emily ten bucks, huh?

“We don’t know.” Not that she would have preferred a punch. “I was a little busy trying not to panic.”

He softens, scratching sheepishly at the back of his neck. “Sorry. I just—wow. The tiny human in there is _moving,_ ” he murmurs—another breath of marvelling; another heart squeeze.

“Yup,” she echoes. “You’ve hit the nail on my thoughts exactly.”

The words are barely out of her mouth—have barely hung in the room for a blink—and then he’s— _wait, wait, wait_ , her inner voice is squeaking, so shrilly her ears might never stop burning; _is he—is he hugging her?_

It’s a strange feeling, the one of his arms around her. It’s not like she hadn’t given it any thought so far— _c’mon_ —she had just avoided going back to those thoughts. _Friends,_ she’d grumble. _They’re friends—_ and there’s been no time to get physical gradually, like friends usually do.

He’s still hugging her, tender and gentle and warm, when he says, gruff, “Sorry, Liv. I—shouldn’t have jumped that gun.”

“Jake,” she says, serious; her words hazy in the curve of his neck. “Shut up.”

_ And kiss me, _ she thinks and barely avoids giggling. _What are you, sixteen, Pope?_

“You’ll have to forgive your dad, kiddo,” she says, glancing down. “He’s apparently run out of wits to keep at the idea of you moving.”

Jake draws back a little. “Just admit it,” he teases, “ _that’s_ what you were waiting for.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny.”

Still—her lips pull up.

**_ VII _ **

“Jake and Olivia sitting,” Emily sing-songs, one day; her eyes sparkling—she pauses, as if to consider. “On a couch—wanting to K-I-S-S.”

Oh, my God. Please— _no._ She will open her eyes now and Em will just be sitting in front of her, no words making her expectant and assuming. No hints of—knowing and _quipping about it. None whatsoever._

She cracks one eye open. Jake’s sister is looking at her as though she intended to memorise her face. “What? No head biting?”

She drags herself up, still staring. “I mean, I get wanting to be careful because of the baby, but—do you guys need a mirror to even see it?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Psh, Liv, c’mon,” she gripes. “The looking and the smiling and—oh my God, the touches? My brother likes you,” she gushes. “ _Likes you_ likes you.”

In spite of herself, Olivia feels her neck flush. _Does he now?_

She stays silent—and still, Emily springs up, triumphant. “A-ha!” she pumps her fist at her. “You do, too. I knew it!”

“I said nothing,” she protests weakly.

“Nice try, Semi Jon Snow,” she banters. “You may not have spoken, but boy—did your eyes ever.”

Olivia rolls her eyes. “That’s not even remotely possible _or_ true, Em.” __

“That’s what you think,” she mumbles back. “What I don’t get is why hasn’t either of you said anything—and don’t say Fitz, that excuse has expired.”

“ _If_ he has something to say,” she considers, “he probably hasn’t because I asked him not to make a move simply due to the fact that I’m carrying his baby.”

“Fair point. While you?”

“While me—I’m a mess, Em. I thought I had something, something solid, after years of clawing for it and feeling like I had been living on the brink. Once that fell apart, I decided to focus on my child and now—now I’m holding back because the truth is, I’m scared.”

“Of?” Emily isn’t trying to convince her, she realises. She’s just—blind as far as Liv’s point of view goes.

“Fucking up,” she admits, and something in her chest tugs loose. “At motherhood, at a relationship—at both; because I’m cut for neither.”

Silently, Emily makes her way to her and hugs her, Olivia’s head cradled in the curve of her shoulder. “You’ve admitted that you fear something,” she says, and it lands amidst strands of her hair. “That’s the first step towards conquering that something.” She adds, “Or well—two things,” and they both chuckle.

Her thank you is a muffled whisper against her tank top.

**_ VIII _ **

_ You’ve admitted you fear something _ , Emily said. _That’s just the first step towards conquering it._

She harrumphs at the empty room as though she were standing right here and had just spoken. And—okay, objectively speaking this _could_ qualify as reassuring. 

Keyword being— _objectively._

“This stopped being objective the minute you were told your kid was his, Liv.”

She whirls around. Quinn is standing by the doorway. “How much have you heard?”

Her face doesn’t fall at the sting of accusation; her eyes betray no hint of swaying towards an extreme reaction. “I’ve heard enough these past few weeks,” calm—she’s the perfect depicture of calm. Just like Liv used to be, in and out of work.

She stifles a sigh at that self-produced jab. _Get ready, because this feeling will take a long vacation away from you._ “Question is,” Quinn’s lips sort of pull up, and Olivia’s brow furrows because— _what is she getting at?_ “Will you act on anything? Let’s be real, you’ve always felt something for the guy, and I can’t really blame you.”

“I want to,” she blurts out. She hadn’t told anyone yet, but it had settled into fact a while ago. Even before Emily had coaxed an admission out of her. It had been subtle—a lingering gaze, here and there; small touches that made her feel warm even much later; her racy thoughts that come unbidden; the shivers at the sound of his voice. “I really want to.”

“Then—why are you not moving? I don’t think he’s achieved telepathy just yet, you know?”

This time, Olivia is the one snickering. “I’m not moving,” she says in a forceful whisper, “because I’m a coward in the face of change, among many things. I’m not moving because it,” she fumbles with the words: so clear in her head, so real; so uniquely simple and still—still so heavy, burning in her throat. “Because _it—he terrifies me_.”

A frown mars her brow, looming the same way a shadow would on a wall. “Not like that,” her words collide into one another, hot with the rush of clarifying. “He just—he’s easy. Easy to talk to, easy to laugh with,” _and at, sometimes; just don’t tell him_. “He’s kind to me. He’s not into pressuring me or anybody; he’s there when I need him—when someone he cares about does; but he does not hover. And I know,” the conviction in her words doesn’t falter because of the sob pressing in on her throat; it may be muffled, it may be swallowed away, it may be tinged with the salt of a few tears she can’t dab away, but—it stays true. “I know this will stand to fact for the baby as well. I know this won’t fall apart after my pregnancy ends; I know the support won’t waver, I know he won’t assume about anything, after. I know, and I’ve never had this kind of certainties, before. I’m not gonna lie, I’m half expecting the other shoes to drop any day, now,” she mutters somewhat dully, in the end.

“Liv,” Quinn lets out a sigh that is half reproach, half something else. “You should tell him. It’s the only way to stop tiptoeing and start going—wherever that may be, in the end.”

**_ IX _ **

She is at his door—the same door she’s now walked through countless times.Lamenting an upset stomach, cursing at her cramping feet and hissing at some idiotic stunts one of their clients had pulled; barging in because she’s hungry, because she’s read something that is _still_ giving her the creeps online—she’s done it all and then some.

She hasn’t knocked yet. She’s been busy with floor thinning pacing. “C’mon, Pope,” she tells herself. “Raise your hand and knock; it’s that easy.”

Tap, tap, tap, her fisted hand echoes.

“Liv,” he says upon opening the door. “Is everything—are you alri—”

“I’m fine; we’re both fine,” she rushes out. _Your phone would’ve blown up already, otherwise_ , she thinks, almost laughing at the idea—it wouldn’t be that far off from the truth. 

He almost asks something, but her hand cuts him off; it lifts, only one finger held up, and for a moment the hallway is utterly quiet; their gazes—hers, unflinching; his, concerned—locked in on each other. “You’ve talked plenty,” she tells him, urgent. “Now, it’s my turn. There’s something you may have guessed about me: I’m a runner and a denier when it comes to people; I’ve always been, and a therapist would probably deduce that my mother’s death and having grown up isolated from my father are the reasons why, if asked. But—this is the one time where running has stopped working for me. I’ve been running for months and I’m sick of doing it, sick of telling myself that this is how it has to go.” 

The baby seems to have picked up on her mood, kicking and kicking at her stomach as she is. It’s not official or anything—just a hunch she hasn’t been able to shake.

He’s staring. It’s not like she’s never caught him before, but—he’s staring and it makes her antsy, this time. He’s staring, and her words are sort of blurring the longer he does that. She rubs her belly. _Focus Olivia._

“So I’m here. To your door—because you’re what I’ve been running from,” she leans in as far as she’s able.Their foreheads start touching, and it all boils down to her heartbeat echoing furiously in her ears and his eyes, open and memorising; and then his hand on her cheek, warm and still and gentle.“And I’m done.”

Jake barely moves. As though he were savouring the moment, before it breaks into pointy shreds or impossibility.

A blink goes by and then—then, he asks her a question. “Permission to kiss you?”

She shivers at his voice echoing by her ear, low and husky like a secret. The baby moves again as if to prod her; _say it, mom,_ it—she?—encourages.

She’s come this far. This is just—another step. The last step. “Permission granted,” she says softly.

He stops waiting, stops stalling. His nose pushes against hers as his lips come crashing down on hers, their foreheads still touching. His hand wanders, too; to her neck, clutching a strand of hair as though that could manage disrupting the urgency, somehow. It has worked its way through their carefully-built walls, and is now busy with sweeping them both up—touching and grabbing and panting and— _feeling._ It’s making her sort of dizzy.

She could live in this minute—this flurry frame of movement would be a cozy home, she thinks. It would be warm and peaceful, to an extent.

Reality appears to have other plans, though. They are still touching, that thrill that comes with doing something you’ve held up for so long still running down her spine like a shiver on a cold night, when the baby kicks.

Jake laughs against the corner of her mouth and it reminds her of a bell chirping—clear and warm. “I see someone’s already taking Tinkerbell as a role model,” he notes. “Would you like to come in?”

She smiles as he backs away. “I would love to,” she says. She follows him inside, the wing within her flapping again, higher and higher; stronger and stronger—by the minute. It hits her as it flaps, as she walks; this place she’s walking into may not become her home, it may not become filled with traces of her, it may not tell her story; but the person waking ahead of her—that person will undoubtedly be able to represent that corner of word where all she is herself and safe and loved, mother and fixer and whatever she fancies herself as; no hierarchy or priority—just her.

Her smile grows.

**_ X _ **

“Mama, Mama, Mama,” his daughter wails. They’re in line for the cashier, their purchases waiting to be bagged, and all he can do is sigh at her outburst.

“Mel,” he says tenderly, “we’ve talked about this, remember? Today is her working day with Aunt Quinn looking for clues for their case. Besides we’re here to plan her surprise, aren’t we, kiddo?”

She nods, but tugs at his free hand as her braid bounces on her shoulder. “Mama,” she says again. Another tug on his wrist follows. “That’s Mama, Daddy. Look!”

Sure enough, there she is; standing by the door and tapping her foot.

He smiles as he makes his way over, before retrieving grocery-packed bags. “Missing us, were you?”

She considers. “Missing you? More like longing for a show of your culinary skills,” she quips. “I have definitely missed your tiny companion, though.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“Mama,” she yelps.

“Yeah, Mel,” Liv tells her softly, “that’s you. You’re Daddy’s tiny companion, but neither of you has a T.A.R.D.I.S—and that’s sad.”

Jake grins. “It’s too early, but we’ll work on it for Christmas, I promise.”

She peers up at the bag he’s gripping; a cork is perfectly visible. “Why is it that,” she drawls, “A wine cork is sticking out of your grocery bag? You don’t even _like_ wine, Captain.”

Mel giggles.

“That’s true,” he agrees—and almost bursts out laughing. “But I know someone who seems to think wine is really, really special and I wanted to surprise them.”

“Lucky them,” she sighs. “Hold on—you bought—you didn’t, Ballard!”

Mel giggles again. _See? I told you, Daddy._

“Some days I do wonder where our daughter gets her eloquence from,” he smirks. “I guess that’s an answer.”

She doesn’t even glare. “I can’t believe you,” a whispering Olivia Pope is a private creature, seldom appearing out of certain circumstances; a stunned Olivia is like a red moon, more whispered about than described—and he’s looking at her right now.

“Do you have any idea,” she gushes, “of how hard to get Dubellay is in general? And you—you bought a bottle of _ninety-four_? I think I need to sit down.”

“How did you figure it out? By glancing at the cork?” He’s grinning even wider now. And shaking his head as he does. “You’re truly something else. And to answer your question, someone might’ve said a couple things about how good it was once or twice; and I just figured,” he shrugs, “why not?”

“Someone, huh? You’re insane,” she tells him.

“And tight-lipped, starting now,” he says back. “Mel, you’re authorized to pinch me if I drop any other accidental spoiler, okay?”

His daughter nods, serious. “Okay, Daddy.”

“We’d better get going, then,” Olivia prompts, “Because you guys have officially awoken the Curiosity Monster and now it won’t stop until it finds _all_ the answers,” she growls playfully.

Amelia laughs. “No can do, Mama. Monsters have to wait, too— _it’s a surprise_ ,” she explains.

“Don’t look at me,” he says brightly, “those are your genes talking, Liv.”

Someone ahead of them turns around—and blinks. “Olivia? _Olivia Pope_ , is it really you?”

People know who his girlfriend is; it’s kind of a given. That high note of surprise, the I’ve-just-run-into-a-celebrity kind of shaken look—also a given. The _oh, my God, how long has it been_ gasp and shocked blink is uncharted territory, though.

“Edison Davis?” She looks just as taken aback. “You haven’t changed a bit since the last time I saw you.”

“I have to say, of all the places I know—this isn’t where I pictured running into you.” He doesn’t know the guy well enough to accuse that barb of carrying resentment, but he does catch Liv stiffening; her grip on the bag she had snatched _and_ Mel’s hand tightening.

On cue, she whimpers, “Too tight, Mama.”

“I’m sorry, kiddo. Mama’s just,” _tired of people assuming things about you and her, Mel._ And _of wanting to hit them because of that—_ after _work._ “A little tired, is all.”

If they were alone, he’d smirk at her; she’d grumble, “Oh, shut up, will you?” and possibly kiss him to ensure that he did.

But they are not alone. And so, she tells Edison, “You didn’t expect to catch me in a supermarket? Well, hate to be the one to burst that bubble, but—I _do_ survive by eating food, too.”

“You definitely haven’t changed,” he notes. “It’s just—I sort of expected a different picture.”

_ Let me guess—no small child in a ten-mile radius within her vicinity. _

“So did I,” she says sharply, “But plans change—for the better at times. The trick is you’ll only know after that happens, right, babe?”

_ Scratch the tired; she’s pissed. _

“Spot on, honey,” he says evenly. If she wants to play, she’ll have to share the fun. “If people had told either of us that we’d be parents three years ago, I’d be still laughing hysterically, probably. You,” he wiggles his brows, “on the other hand, would’ve sued them and won on the spot.”

“I suppose you’re right, Olivia,” Edison admits, “plans change—and so do people. Once upon a time, I would’ve wished for that to be me.”

“Don’t,” she warns. “Just—don’t, Edison.” She’s still angry—he can see it in her posture—but her voice deflates. “It’s been years, and as you can see, we were both extremely wrong.”

“Come on,” he cuts in, his voice low. Hadn’t people gone past the shock two years ago?

Liv shakes her head. “It’s not the first time someone comes up to me and says, _you with a child; who would’ve thought it?_ And you’re right—even I was sure it wouldn’t happen, but it did; out of the left field as it was, I’m happy glad it did and this is it. You don’t get to reprimand me for changing my mind—no one does.”

-:-

“She’s asleep,” Liv tells him later that night. “Finally. I dread to think of the day she starts drinking coffee.”

“And here I was,” he teases, “thinking her first sip would make you cry.”

“I’m afraid you’ve misemployed the concept of a joke, there,” she mutters. “Listen, about—earlier, I know I should have just walked out, but after nearly three years, I just can’t take the sneering anymore.”

“This sounds like an apology,” he says, soft and yet almost biting. “And you know what you shouldn’t do? Apologise for choosing how to live your life; not to me, not to a passerby; not to anyone. Now,” his voice lightens, “I seem to recall we had a toast on schedule, didn’t we?”

She chuckles. “So the host implied, yes.”

“I’ll be right back, then.” There’s no missing the glint in his eyes as he slides off the couch. Or the flock of shivers descending down her spine because of said glint, for that matter.

He comes back a few minutes later—wine glasses held tightly as he settles back down next to her. The glass is reflecting the soft hues of the living room lights as they break into the dense red of her favourite wine. Anticipation coils like a braid in her gut while he hands her one and sort of smiles, toothless. 

“These last three years have been a rollercoaster, if there’s ever been one. They were completely unexpected; all I thought I’d get out of that strange curveball was a baby—and maybe a patched up friendship with someone I wouldn’t have gotten back in touch with, otherwise,” his voice is tight, almost rueful; as though the what-if were something he had lived through. “Instead, that someone is the person I wake up next to most days, and the family I have now is all I’ve ever watched from afar and wished for as a child—and it’s hard, I’ll give you that, but we wake up every morning and we do our best to make it work—doom and gloom; scorching sun—whatever shakes us it doesn’t knock us off. So,” his glass lifts, the wine in it swaying, “here’s to us, Liv.”It’s simple—direct. There is no pompousness. Her name—it’s just her name, whispered and almost choked; that’s what it takes—on the tail of that speech—to have her heart pressing and beating furiously against her throat.

“Here’s to us, indeed,” she murmurs as their glasses meet and clink and echo. “To us and to the warmth I thought only friends could give, to us and to certainty; to us—and facing everything together.”

The wine is still dripping at the corner of her lips when he kisses her. It starts out slowly, tenderly, even; and then—there’s this moment, one tiny splash of time, where it explodes into hunger, into necessity. His hands grip her shoulders and hers circle his neck. The heat pushes and pushes, pulsing; there’s a rush—to touch and nib and move.

He’s kissed many times, but every time—every single time—that he does, it’s like he lights up a match; and thus her body sings and roars and shouts, _more, more, more._

“Wine tastes good,” he admits in a pant, against her mouth. He moves his head back so that his mouth is higher up, by her ear. Kisses the skin below it and then murmurs, “Tastes better off your mouth, though.”

_ Oh, hell. _ She’s still shivering as she leans in to kiss him again. Harder, faster; it’s a kiss—it’s a seal. “Noted,” she rasps.

The rest of the night is a dance—the moves of which consist in a tangle of lips and arms and legs—and all she can think is, _please don’t stop._

Kissing his way down her neck, he guides her down, down, down on the couch—never averting his eyes once; never breaking away.

His descent goes on and it feels like every touch is a step towards something that grows farther and farther at the same time, its sole aim resembling the madness of a mere brush that leaves her breathless.

Her back arches as pressure builds—and she moves. Meeting him in the middle it is, then. 

-:-

They lay there, afterwards. It’s not the most comfortable of places, but moving honestly sounds daunting right now. They are interloped; in that state that is not fully awake, but not exactly sleepy, either. It’s a moment, a slice of calm; it’s home.

_ Here’s to us _ , they toasted. _Here’s to home_ is what they meant; the commitment they’re staking on.

__


End file.
